


Still Human

by iknowhowmystoryends (gorgeouschaos)



Series: If Supernatural was on HBO [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Demon Dean Winchester, If Supernatural (TV) Were on HBO, M/M, implied Dean Winchester/Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28847718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gorgeouschaos/pseuds/iknowhowmystoryends
Summary: “It’s almost like you still care,” Crowley says conversationally. “If I didn’t know better, I might even think you were still human.”
Relationships: Crowley (Supernatural)/Dean Winchester
Series: If Supernatural was on HBO [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2040013
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	Still Human

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Implied/mild sexual content, an instance of intent to commit sexual assault (not by a major character), slightly dubious consent between Dean and Crowley due to Dean's state of mind, implied/referenced substance abuse, some violence. Please feel free to ask if you have any questions.  
> If you'd like to read the ficlet this is based on, which is excellent, it's here: https://fromcenotaphy.tumblr.com/post/640691715228024832/okay-okay-have-we-have-hbo-demondean-because-i  
> As always, so many thank yous to cenotaphy for creating these ideas and giving me permission to work off of them.
> 
> I put off an essay for this. Sigh. I make good decisions.  
> Thanks for reading, hope you like it, and I love hearing from y'all.

The first time Dean kills an angel with the First Blade, he’s just finished fucking him. 

Dean kills him not because his eyes are blue or his hair is tousled from Dean’s hands or because he’d placed his hand over Cas’ handprint. Dean kills him because nothing gets him fucked up anymore, not opioids or party drugs or alcohol or heroin, and Dean wants to know if Grace still tastes enough like Cas to make him  _ feel _ .

Dean’s not awake long enough to decide if it does or not. 

Dean wakes up with every bone in his body throbbing. He groans. 

“Awake, princess?” Crowley’s voice drawls. “About time.”

“What--”

“Did you ever think that maybe, I don’t know, angels and demons don’t mix?”

Dean doesn’t bother answering that. “Where am I?”

“Hell.”

It’s instinct that has Dean twitching each of his limbs to make sure he’s not strapped down.

Crowley snorts. “You’re on the finest silk sheets available in this fucking universe, not the rack. Calm down.”

Dean cracks his eyes open long enough to confirm this. The only restriction on his movement is the IV in his arm attached to a bag of what looks like blood. The sheets are black, because of course they are. 

“Whose blood is that?”

“About half a dozen minor demons,” Crowley says dismissively. “They were annoying anyway.”

“Right. Am I in your bed?”

“Why, someone else’s you’re supposed to be warming?”

“Well, now that you mention it--”

“Shut up,” Crowley hisses. He shoves Dean’s mouth shut with enough force that Dean’s teeth go through his tongue. “Just-- shut up. You bloody fool, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

_ That’s the point _ , Dean thinks, but even though Crowley has let go of his jaw he can’t say it because Crowley’s kissing him. 

Dean lets Crowley lick the blood out of his mouth, lets him lick his way down Dean’s body, lets Crowley work him over; Dean fists his hands in the stupid silk sheets; Dean watches his eyes stutter void-black in the mirror on the ceiling, throws his head back, doesn’t say the name caught in his throat. 

Dean isn’t sure why he gets to dream. Maybe it’s the thirty years of practice Alastair gave him. Asleep in the King of Hell’s bed, Dean finds himself on the dock of a quiet lake with someone standing beside him, just out of view. 

He wakes up to see Crowley’s eyes studying his face, entirely black and entirely all too knowing. 

After he showers Crowley off of himself, Dean pulls on the tightest pair of jeans and the thinnest shirt that Crowley’s given him and heads to a bar he remembers a little too well. 

He lets a group of men shove him face first into an alley wall, lets the scent of anticipatory lust become overwhelming, and then lets himself rip out their throats one by one. 

The Mark hums, satisfied, and Dean smiles, runs a hand through his blood-flecked hair. 

He has the dream again that night.

Dean doesn’t kill any more blue-eyed angels.

How Dean finds himself in the middle of Alastair’s amphitheatre, he doesn’t quite know 

Dean stares at the rack where Alastair took him apart for thirty years. Before he leaves, he traces one finger along the edge of Alastair’s favorite straight razor. 

The cut heals just before Dean strides into the room where the soul contracts are held. He flicks the lighter that’s never left his pocket and smiles. 

Half the room is in ashes before Crowley hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder and murmurs, “Now, then, lover, saving them won’t make him hurt, will it? Not in any way that matters.”

Dean can hear the steel beneath the velvet of Crowley’s voice. But steel is no match for the First Blade, so he says, “Maybe it’s not about hurting him.”

“Well, it’s certainly not about saving them,” Crowley says, and Dean almost wishes he was wrong.

Dean never goes back to Alastair’s rack. 

The man who broke there died a long time ago. 

Cole finds him, and Dean leaves him screaming in the parking lot with two shattered kneecaps. Dean doesn’t bother finishing the job. 

Sam finds him, and Dean slips into the shadows, leaving everything and a trail of bodies behind; Sam finds him, and Dean slices his palm open and smiles at the way Sam’s pupils dilate; Sam finds him, and Dean guts anyone who asks why Dean hasn’t killed his brother yet. 

Cas finds him, and Dean doesn’t slit his throat and drink his Grace; Cas finds him, and Dean can’t keep his eyes off the guttering candle of stolen Grace under his ribs; Cas finds him, and Dean tilts his head back and pants when the fallen angel touches the Mark like it’s something holy.

(Dean guts anyone who asks why he hunts angels and leaves vials of stolen Grace on the bunker doorstep, too.

But then, Dean rips apart anyone who looks at him too long these days. Crowley bitches incessantly about the depletion of the workforce.)

“It’s almost like you still care,” Crowley says conversationally. “If I didn’t know better, I might even think you were still human.”

“Shut up and fuck me,” Dean snarls, sprawled on the throne of Hell. 

Crowley obliges. 

Dean screams as the first hit of purifying blood hits his veins, because he never really stopped being human, because he can still remember what it felt like to be saved. 

And that terrifies him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on twitter as @mystoryends5 and on Tumblr as i-know-how-my-story-ends. Come say hi, request a fic, etc.


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